


Touch Me With Fire

by disasterhawke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angry Fenris (Dragon Age), Blue Hawke (Dragon Age), Chantry Boys (Dragon Age), Chantry Sex (Dragon Age), Confessional, Confessional Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom Fenris (Dragon Age), F/M, Identity Reveal, Jealous Sebastian, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 07:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20578901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disasterhawke/pseuds/disasterhawke
Summary: Burdened with the sins of a night with Fenris, Hawke finds herself in the Chantry to give confession.The trouble is, they've given her a Chantry brother whose voice makes heat pool between her legs, and she's already done such a terrible thing. Will one more really make all that much difference?





	Touch Me With Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I had this general rule that I was only going to write smut that had a purpose, and then I discovered this subset of Hawke/Sebastian fics, and...this happened.
> 
> Ahem.

The shame of it creeps insidiously through her, like rainwater that gets under the collar and trails its way down the spine.

Arms folded across her armour, Hawke wanders through Hightown without any direction other than away from the mansion Fenris has claimed as his own. It had seemed too strange to stay, after he’d left. Too strange to sit there and think about how much she ached; both for him and because of him.

She had never thought of herself as prudish. You couldn’t be, if you served with an army, even as a runner like she did. Soldiers were soldiers. She’d even been with one of the other soldiers once. It was a war. You did things and didn’t really think about them, because most of the time consequences didn’t last long enough.

But they’re not at war, now. Kirkwall is on edge, yes, but there’s no battle. Just a simmering pot of tension that she’s trying desperately to keep from boiling over.

So the shame of making Fenris relieve a memory he didn’t want, the pain of being discarded, stirs in with the sense of having done something she really, really shouldn’t have. If she lets her mind empty, his voice appears within it. If she closes her eyes, she can see his anger as he tells her it wasn’t really anything.

Hawke thinks he might be lying, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the gnawing, clawing hurt in her chest.

She doesn’t really mean to end up at the Chantry - her feet just carry her there, up the many steps to the tall, bronze doors. It’s late, but the lamps still flicker either side, welcoming in all those who would seek sanctuary.

Is that what she needs?

The Chantry has always been in her life, just like it’s in anyone’s, but as this imposing figure at the side. And it isn’t like she goes there often - once or twice, in the past few years, to help Anders find his poor friend Karl. To get the money for killing those mercenaries.

But there’s nothing else out here in the streets but her thoughts and her pain, so Hawke reaches for the door and pulls it open.

After that, she’s not sure quite what to do. It’s not as empty as she expected - there are a few sisters and brothers moving around quietly. In some ways that makes it harder, so Hawke just finds herself standing limply in the centre of the room, looking up at the lectern on the mezzanine above.

“Can I help you, my child?”

“Oh, ah…” Hawke turns, and looks at the woman who has come down the stairs just behind her. “Hello, Grand Cleric. I hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

The woman looks at her the way she always has - like she knows every inch of Hawke’s soul, and cares even though she finds much of it wanting. “Not at all. Indeed, it would seem that it is I who is disturbing you.”

“Not really. I...don’t know what I’m doing here, to be honest.”

The Grand Cleric nods. “Something weighs upon your soul.”

Her heart, maybe - but Hawke agrees anyway, looking down at the ground. She shouldn’t have come here. This is a holy place, and she is anything but holy. She opens her mouth to say as much, but the Grand Cleric reaches out and touches her, gently, on the elbow.

“Have you ever given confession, my child?”

“No,” Hawke replies, reaching up to rub at the back of her neck. “I haven’t...felt the need to?”

Elthina smiles softly. “But you do now.”

Though she opens her mouth to say no, Hawke feels the shame splay out around her ribcage, sprawling from her spine to envelop her chest. She has broken someone who was already broken, and done it in a terrible way.

“...yes.”

“Then come with me. Our normal Sister of Confession has taken to her bed, but I am sure I can find someone who will listen. You will not see them, nor they you, so do not fear. There is nothing that you cannot say to them.”

Soon Hawke finds herself sitting on a bench, her hands wrapped around the edge of it. The door to the booth is closed, and it is just her in the narrow space, surrounded by the flaking red paint. To her right, there is a beautiful stained glass panel. It depicts Andraste, that much she’s sure of, but beyond that Hawke’s lacking theology fails her.

The thoughts start to claw at her throat.

Eventually someone enters the other side, their presence a relief against the onslaught of images in her mind. She cannot see them as more than a silhouette, just visible as a shadow upon the stained glass, and it comforts her. Maybe this really will help. Someone to talk to who doesn’t know her at all, who will listen as she unloads the thoughts that want to strangle her.

“The Grand Cleric tells me,” says a warm voice, rich and low and lilting, “that there are sins that trouble you, child of the Maker.”

The voice is vaguely familiar, but Hawke can’t place it - most likely, it’s one of the Brothers she heard speaking on the way in. The accent is definitely Starkhaven, but she’s only met a few people from there - like that Prince she killed the mercenaries for. At least it can’t be him; he doesn’t serve in this Chantry. She remembers him arguing with the Grand Cleric about it.

In its own way, that vague familiarity is comforting. Even still, it takes her a while to say anything at all.

“Yes. I - I’ve not done this before.”

There’s a pause. Has she done something wrong? Is there something she’s meant to say?

“When I gave my first confession,” the silhouette says, “I thought I had to unburden myself of all my sins at once. The sister who took my confession stopped me after an hour. You do not need to speak of all that troubles you - only that which weighs upon your heart this very moment.”

The more he speaks, the more Hawke comes to like the soft, resonant tones. It’s like they coax the words she cannot say out of her chest, pulling them lightly from within the claws of her shame.

“I have a friend,” she says, softly and slowly, with none of her usual conviction, “who’s had terrible things done to him. I think I might be one of those terrible things.”

“And what is it that you have done?”

Hawke bites her lip, and tenses her grip on the edge of the bench, feeling the peeling paint crack beneath her fingers. This place is safe. She can say anything, the Grand Cleric said. She has to, or she’ll never get it out of her.

“I slept with him.”

“Fornicaiton is not inherently a sin, though it is more often than not sinful,” the brother says, his brogue putting such emphasis on the first word that Hawke feels her thighs clench in memory.

“He said it reminded him of the time before he was a slave,” Hawke continues, biting her lip again and tearing skin from it. “That he had just wanted to feel better for a while. That that was it, and it wouldn’t happen again.”

“And did you know it would stirs these memories in him?”

“No! No, of course not, I would never have…”

“Then what is it that makes you feel ashamed?”

“I don’t feel ashamed, I feel guilty.”

The figure chuckles, his laughter as warm as his voice. “I know shame, child of the Maker. _ You _are ashamed. Why?”

Closing her eyes, Hawke remembers lyrium-lined hands splaying over her stomach, pushing her roughly against the ground.

“Because I know I hurt him, and I still just...want. I want to run after him and make him so angry that he’ll -”

“So angry that he’ll what?” the brother asks, his voice softening.

The answer claws out of her throat like a hiss. “Take me again.” She winces then, pulling her hands to her face as if to hide it. He can’t see her, this brother on the other side of the glass, but she’d be stupid to think he can’t hear the thickness of her voice.

“So,” the voice says, the silhouette shifting as if to move closer, “the problem is not that you did it at all, but your feelings towards what he did to you?”

_ The problem_, Hawke thinks to herself, _ is that I’m in a confessional booth with a holy man and all I can think about is being fucked into this stupid tiny bench. That I want to come so hard they hear my moans back in the centre of the Chantry. _

She doesn’t say this, of course. Instead she just says: “Yes.”

“Then tell me.”

Something changes in the voice with those words. It’s as if it becomes harder, a shift exaggerated by the fact that she can see the figure closer to the window now. There’s still nothing more than a shape, but she can appreciate the broad shoulders, the way they’re leaning forward intently, the -

Fuck.

She’s lusting after a Chantry brother she can’t even see. She has a problem, a really bad problem, and there might not be a ladder out of the hole she’s in.

“We were drinking,” she says, looking at the silhouette and letting her hands drop back to her side. “In front of the fire. We’d taken our armour off because it was so warm, and for once it felt like no one was trying to kill us. Somehow we got arguing about - mages.”

“A controversial topic, depending upon who you’re with.”

“There’s magic in my family. He was tortured by mages.”

“Then I cannot imagine your conversation was a lighthearted one.”

Hawke scrapes her teeth over her lip again. “No. No, it wasn’t. Eventually I thought he was going to hit me, but instead he - kissed me.”

“How?”

“...what?”

“There are many ways to kiss a person, child of the Maker,” the figure murmurs, in a voice that sounds almost like a purr, but can’t be. She’s projecting. “How did he kiss you?”

“Like he was trying to devour me,” Hawke says, the words coming out as little more than a whisper. She shifts forward, and immediately regrets it - the movement makes the seam of her trousers press between her legs, reminding her of the faint, pulsing throb that hasn’t quite left since Fenris did.

“And is that how you kissed him?”

“I made it worse. I wanted to push him, to see what he’d do if - I bit him, and he pinned me to the ground, he -”

“How?”

“He straddled my legs. Pushed me to the floor by my stomach, my shirt rode up and his hands were half on my skin. They were cold. How do you have cold hands when you’re in front of a fire?”

A soft tap sounds to her right as the figure leans against the window, his forehead pressed to the glass. “From what you have said, I cannot imagine he was cold for long.”

Hawke licks her lips, and wonders how much the man next to her can see. Is she just a shadow to him? If she ground her hips forward, made the pressure between her legs worse, would he know?

“He kept kissing me,” she says, pretending to adjust her position. It’s better; the material presses between the folds of her cunt, but it’s just more infuriating. “As - he put his fingers between my legs. He didn’t take my clothes off at first, just rubbed through the material, I thought I was going to die.”

“Did he make you come like that?”

The words run straight between Hawke’s legs and she snaps her lips closed into a line, cutting off whatever sound was trying to escape them. Chantry brothers take vows of chastity, don’t they? Right? Maker, this poor man is probably desperate.

If you think of it like that, it would be unfair to stop answering. Uncharitable.

And it’s not like she can do anything worse than she already has.

Hawke leans her hands on the bench again, but places them between her legs, one hand resting on the wood and the other interlaced over it. “No,” she says, pressing herself against the heel of her hands. “He could have done, but he just teased me, until he got too frustrated himself and pulled my trousers off.”

She leans forward more and _ Maker, fucking damnit, yes that’s better. _

“You didn’t even move from in front of the fire?” the rich, lilting voice asks, now so close that it’s like a whisper in her ear.

“The bed was too far away. I needed him then, right away, I didn’t want to wait any longer. Didn’t need him to, I was so wet I could smell myself, I thought I was going to come the moment he was inside me.”

“Did you?”

“No. No, but it was close, he felt so good, thick and hot and filling me up.”

The figure shifts again as Hawke rolls her hips, eyes closing at the pressure on her clit. “And how,” he says, the shadow moving as if he had placed one hand along the glass, “did he fuck you?”

She does whimper that time, only quietly, but he’s inches from her face and the glass isn’t going to stop everything. _ This _ should make her feel ashamed, but it doesn’t, it can’t, because all she can think about is how good that word sounded in his voice and Maker, she’ll give confession a thousand times if it means she can hear it again.

“Slowly at first,” Hawke whispers, now rolling against her hands in tiny, constant movements. “With my legs round him and my arms pinned to the floor, but then he said that wasn’t enough, he needed more. He flipped me over and pressed my face into the ground, and from there he felt so much bigger, like I was meant to be on my knees in front of him.”

“And you enjoyed that? Letting him be in control. Letting him take what he wanted from you, as if you were nothing more than his, to do with as he pleased, every little whim or thought that came into his mind.”

Ripples of electricity run up Hawke’s legs and down her spine, coming to coalesce on the spot she’s desperately grinding into her hand. She’s going to make herself come in the Chantry, listening to a holy man ask her how a Tevinter slave fucked her, and Andraste help her but that only makes her breaths come all the shorter.

“I loved it,” Hawke says, breathlessly, “because it felt like I shouldn’t. Is that terrible, Brother?”

“The Maker understands why we sin, child,” the figure says, and she thinks he must be kneeling by the glass now, because his head is right next to hers. “He gave us free will that we could make the choice. It would not be temptation if those foul deeds did not feel so very, very good.”

It shouldn’t be possible for her to come again, not after Fenris rode her into the ground and put his long, slender fingers between her legs and made her scream his name half a dozen times. She definitely shouldn’t be able to come just by rubbing herself on her hands, through layers of thick cloth.

Hawke comes anyway, not moaning or crying out but just gasping, the orgasm shuddering up her body from root to shoulder and all the way down her legs.

“I hope,” the voice says, hoarse with something that all the worst parts of Hawke want to be desire, “that you feel better for having confessed your sins, child of the Maker.”

She bites her lip. “I do, yes.”

“Then go unto the world cleansed in the light of Blessed Andraste, and know that She loves you despite your sins.”

Shaking, breathing heavily, nose filled with her own scent, Hawke stumbles out of the confessional booth and all but runs out of the Chantry. The cold night air cuts hard against the last of the heat in her body, but does nothing to remove the feeling of wanton delight.

\---

In the Chantry, forehead pressed against the glass, hair askew and cast about his face, Sebastian weighs his resolve.

And loses it.

He pushes the chainmail aside from his legs, unbuckling and reaching into his trousers to free the erection that has strained there since the moment the woman started speaking. He could hear it in her voice from the start, the thick sound of lust and desire, he knew it well enough to recognise it.

It’s a sin, it’s going to the very edge of his vows and leaning on the fence and laughing, but Sebastian drags his fist up and down himself roughly, imagining her leaning in front of him and pressed into the ground, her short hair clutched in his other hand -

Because Hawke might have forgotten him, but he would never forget the voice of the woman who avenged his family, who granted him some semblance of peace.

He should not be thinking about her like this. He should not. She is a good woman, he could tell that the day he met her. But Sebastian swears that he can still smell her, can still hear the faint panting of her breath and see the shifting of her shadow as she pleasures herself.

Maker, she was so close, if they’d been anywhere else he could have just grabbed her and run _ his _ hands down her body, flexed _ his _ fingers over her clit until she whimpered, and yes it felt good to do that to her with his voice alone but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough, and neither is his hand around his cock.

But he loves it anyway, because it feels like he shouldn’t, and when Sebastian comes all over himself he growls his moan into his other fist and sees stars behind his eyes.

Two weeks later, he gets word about the Flint Company. About the people who hired them, and he can’t quite believe it, but it has to be true. 

And he would do anything to avenge his family. Anything. So when he sends a letter to Hawke, asking her to come and help, it’s definitely just...that.

It isn’t for the moment that he greets her, sees her eyes widen as she recognises his voice, sees the tiny dart of her tongue onto the bottom lip that she catches with her teeth.

It isn’t for the chance to meet the man who got to do what he can’t, to look him in the eye and feel the searing thrum of jealousy.

It definitely isn’t for the chance to touch her, even just a little, even in a way that no one would think improper - a hand up from the ground, a pat on the shoulder, a brush of fingertips whilst handing over a glass.

Around Hawke, Sebastian quickly decides, he is going to need to pray.

A lot.


End file.
